Moody's magical eye kept moving, locking onto a corner of the long table with the precision of a searchlight.
The Weasley family's twins.
They were huddled together, their voices lowered in a furtive conspiracy.
The magical eye easily pierced the crowd and caught several key phrases in their notebook.
"...the white-haired dandelion root isn't old enough..."
"...that drop of dragon blood was too active. It nearly blew up the cauldron..."
"...we can apply for a little more funding for the project Professor Douglas approved..."
Ageing Potion.
Moody understood at once.
These two restless troublemakers were attempting to use magic to fool Dumbledore's Age Line.
The image of a farmer surfaced in Moody's mind.
A cold, patient farmer.
And all of Hogwarts was his field.
Harry Potter was the finest-growing ear of wheat.
All he needed to do was wait.
Wait for harvest time, then swing the sickle.
As for the Weasley twins...
They were weeds.
Weeds that warranted vigilance, but did not yet need pulling.
Night deepened.
The castle fell asleep.
Only in the kitchen did a dim oil lamp still burn.
Carrying a bowl of hot soup, Dobby walked carefully toward the corner.
Winky was kneeling on the floor, frantically scrubbing an enormous copper pot with a rag.
She had long since polished the pot until it reflected people's figures.
Yet she kept scrubbing the same spot, over and over, with a force that bordered on self-harm.
The skin on her fingers had worn through, seeping blood and leaving dark red streaks across the copper pot.
She no longer drank to excess.
Professor Douglas had forbidden the kitchen from supplying her with any more Butterbeer.
So she had found another way to punish herself.
To drown the bone-deep fear and guilt in endless, frenzied work.
"Winky..."
Dobby set the